Fantasy, bear shifters, and a whole lot of magic is what you get in the
appropriately titled THE SECRET SHE
KEEPS. These four long novellas can be read in any order, as they
are not interconnected.
SHADOW OF TRUTH by Shannon K. Butcher
What if your childhood imaginary friend was real? That's what video
game designer Winnifred Archer finds out when she meets Garet
Hartwell. SHADOW OF TRUTH is a fast-paced, action-packed fantasy,
and the author's vivid descriptions fill the pages with vibrant images.
Shannon K. Butcher clearly and concisely establishes her world, and I
was immediately sucked in even though fantasy is not usually my thing.
The romance is based on the fated mates concept; Garet and
Winnifred's relationship seems more of a lust-fueled partnership to
unite their forces against evil than true love, but they certainly have
sexual chemistry to spare!
BAD ASS BEAR by Kathy Lyons
She loves him, he loves her, so what's stopping them? Boy, are you in
for a treat! Now I know for a fact that Kathy Lyons is my favourite
shifter romance author! BAD ASS BEAR reads like a complete
standalone, while still tied to the Grizzlies Gone Wild series. Not one to
shy away from complex situations, Ms. Lyons surprised me again in
tackling some interesting issues, therefore lifting shifter romance yet to
another level. BAD ASS BEAR is intense, emotional, tender, and
completely mind-blowing where the conflict is concerned. There are
some wonderful laugh-out-loud moments, and the banter between
Gary and Margaret is priceless! Kathy Lyons never ceases to awe me
with her boundless creativity, always taking things just a little further
than anyone else, and in such a flawless fashion.
Gary and Margaret are both wonderful characters; their relationship
from the start is so loving and feels so authentic. It was truly gratifying
to watch the romance unfold; they are so attuned to each other, they
really care. Two very different difficult situations are handled very
realistically, and one is truly scary. Some secondary characters are
simply wonderful: Gary's father, Ray, and the unflappable Vic. And BAD
ASS BEAR is so beautifully written, it's all so awesome. Kathy Lyons has
cornered the market on intelligent shifter romances.
NOWHERE TO HIDE by Terri L. Austin
After three years on the run, Hailey Evans knew that someone was
watching her, but this time it wasn't her enemies: Vane Aldridge, a
sorcerer and telekinetic, is on her side. It takes some serious writing
skills to parachute a reader into an unknown world and make it seem
instantly familiar. The foreboding atmosphere, stunning visuals, and
clever dialogues contribute to make this novella a smashing success. I
loved Hailey's voice and spirit, and Vane was just as impressive. I tend
to shun magic-themed stories because I feel authors often underuse
what lies at their disposition, which is not the case here. Ms. Austin's
world is exciting, the magic intriguing, and the romance is delightful
and entirely believable precisely because of the author's terrific use of
the characters' supernatural powers. NOWHERE TO HIDE is absolutely
fantastic!
SHARDS OF LIGHT by Anna Argent
SHARDS OF LIGHT was a bit of a letdown following the fireworks of the
previous stories. I felt too much time was spent on talking, reminiscing
about the past, and basically being in Dex and Lark's heads. It felt very
static, there was precious little action per se until the very end.
SHARDS OF LIGHT felt either as a prequel or the first installment of a
series in establishing the world and introducing various characters. The
magical concept is interesting, the villain quite innovative, the author
descriptions shine throughout, but the slower pace clashed with the
other three stories, and left me a tad deflated.
The beauty of anthologies such as this one is having yet another story
by a favorite author, in my case Kathy Lyons with yet another
outstanding story, and discovering new authors. I consider THE SECRET SHE KEEPS a winner
because I discovered Terri L. Austin's exceptional talent in a genre that
is often a miss for me.
Four novellas filled with passion, magic and deep, dark
secrets…Shadow of Truth by Shannon K. Butcher
Socially awkward nerd and video game designer Winnifred
Archer has a rich fantasy life. So, when a badass,
sword-wielding warrior decides he wants her, she’s not sure
whether or not he’s real. She’s not equipped her to handle
a
man like him, or the things he wants from her, but she must
find a way to face her fears and fight by his side or she
will lose everyone she loves.
Bad Ass Bear by Kathy Lyons
Hiding from the secret that ended her last relationship,
flight attendant Margaret Taylor settled for the next best
thing to love: a friends-only status with her handsome,
paraplegic neighbor, Gary Baldner. But Gary has a secret,
too. It’s about to break free, upend their worlds, and
bring
them both perfect happiness.
Nowhere to Hide by Terri L. Austin
Running for her life, Hailey managed to escape from the
psychotic billionaire who imprisoned and tortured her. Now
using her secret clairvoyant powers, she’s trying to stay
one step ahead of certain death. Sexy sorcerer, Vane, has a
duty to take down Hailey’s enemy, even if it means using
her
as bait.
Shards of Light by Anna Argent
When Lark witnesses a bizarre murder, a decade-old secret
resurfaces and forces her to find her old flame. Dex is no
longer the easygoing guy she knew. He’s dark, deadly and
involved with a secret society that believes magic is real
and hunts down those who abuse it. As their passion
reignites, Dex must find a way to keep the darkness in his
life from touching Lark or he will end up just like the
things he hunts.
Excerpt
Shards of Light by Anna Argent
November 16, Oklahoma City
For the last ten years Dex Hamilton had dreamed about
seeing his childhood friend again, but not like this. Never
like this.
Lark Florence stood on his doorstep, dripping wet,
shivering and terrified. His porch light shone down on her,
gleaming over limp, wet hair. Her bright copper-colored
eyes were wide with fear and rimmed with black where her
rain-soaked mascara had run. With another woman he would
have guessed she’d also been crying, but the Lark he’d
known never cried. Period.
She’d lost her freckles since he’d last seen her, but her
sweet, heart-shaped face and deeply-indented upper lip were
still the same. Age had carved her features into more
elegant lines and her body into fuller curves—curves that
even when immature had left him panting with lust at the
tender age of seventeen. Then again, at that age, pretty
much everything had turned him on, even the rounded
contours of his video game controller.
She wasn’t any taller now than she’d been as a teen, but he
was. He’d come into his size late in his teens and early
twenties, now towering over most people. It was strange to
be staring down at her when for so long they’d been on the
same eye level.
He was so shocked to see her appear out of nowhere on his
doorstep after all these years that all he could do was
stare. He worried that if he so much as blinked, she’d
disappear like some kind of cruel trick of the eyes.
“Lark?” Her name came out as a question, though he hadn’t
intended it to. He knew who she was. How could he not?
They’d been inseparable until that last night ten years
ago.
Some days he still ached from the loss of her presence in
his life.
She struggled with a smile. It flickered across her full
mouth before dying a swift death. Her voice trembled
slightly. “I know I shouldn’t have shown up without
calling, but I didn’t have your number.”
“How did you find me?” he asked. Not that it mattered. All
that mattered was that she had found him.
“I got your address from public real estate records.”
Outside his small, warm home, cold rain continued to fall
from the night sky. The paved road was glossy, reflecting
the streetlights in warm, golden swaths of color. A white
Nissan sat at the curb, its headlights still glowing.
Had she left it running? Was she going to disappear from
his life for another ten years?
A surge of denial burst through him. He’d known he missed
her, but hadn’t realized just how much until now, when she
was once again close enough to touch.
They’d been kids together. Their moms had been best
friends. When he was thirteen his family had moved into the
house next door to hers. They’d been thrust into each
other’s lives on an almost daily basis. Weekly dinners,
back yard barbeques, holiday gatherings. He’d been taught
to look out for her, protect her, and that instinct had
never quite faded, as if it had somehow been imbedded in
his DNA.
That, in a nutshell, was why he hadn’t spoken to her in ten
long years. The only thing that had the power to keep him
away was the certain knowledge that wherever he went,
danger was always right on his heels. He couldn’t bring
that into her life, so he’d kept his distance. For her.
And now? he asked himself.
He couldn’t let her get away again—not until he at least
had a way to contact her. Talk to her. How dangerous could
a phone call be?
The bleak answer to that question swirled in the back of
his mind, but he shoved it down until he could ignore it.
Their time together had ended in abrupt tragedy, but even
while drowning in shock and grief, he’d missed her. He’d
ached to reach out, to respond to her email messages and
texts, but it had been against the rules. No outside
contact. It wasn’t safe. Powerful, dangerous people were
hunting him.
Dex was a grown man now, and while he still worked with the
group that had saved his life all those years ago, he was
no longer a child to be controlled by them.
Lark was in trouble now. He could see it in her face, in
her pretty copper-colored eyes, and damn if all those old
protective instincts didn’t roar back to life from the mere
sight of her.
Whatever her problem, he was going to fix it. Kill it.
Destroy it. Even the idea of doing so gave him a rush of
strength and made the ancient fragments of magic he carried
shiver in anticipation.
A gust of wind slipped through the open door, reminding him
that she was wet and cold—something else he was going to
fix.
He stepped back out of the way. “Come in out of the rain.”
Lark glanced over her shoulder to check behind her as if
she feared someone might see her. The quiet street was
empty. His neighbors were all inside, tucked away from the
storm. Their windows glowed with light. A shadow crossed
the curtains of Mrs. Neimyers’s living room.
No dogs barked out a warning. Everything was quiet except
for the patter of rain.
She stepped through his front door just enough for him to
close it behind her. Water dripped from her clothes into
the utilitarian rug he kept in his entryway. Her eyes
darted around his home, taking in his sparse furnishings
and his casual, second-hand, garage sale style.
He’d never really cared much about how the place looked as
long as it was clean and functional. His job kept him busy
and showed him just how big a place the world really was—
how many things there were to worry about beside a trendy
décor. But now, watching her study his home, he felt a pang
of self-consciousness.
Had Lark become judgmental in the years that had passed?
Would she look down on him for his lack of color and style?
The old Lark never would have cared, but this one? He had
no idea if she’d changed, or how much.
“Take off your coat,” he said. “I’ll grab you a towel.”
“It’s okay. I can’t stay long. I just had to…” She shivered
again as she trailed off, though he could no longer say for
sure if it was from cold or whatever was scaring her enough
to show up on his doorstep at night after such a long
absence.
Something was wrong. Terribly wrong.
“Don’t you dare move,” he said, his tone the same hard
crack of sound he used to train those who were new to their
powers. “I’ll be right back.”
He raced down the short hall to the linen closet and pulled
out the biggest, fluffiest towel he owned.
She was still there when he came back ten seconds later,
and for some reason, seeing her there, dripping on his rug,
surprised him all over again.
She was beautiful. She’d always been pretty, but she’d
grown way past that now. Even with drenched hair and
dripping makeup, she was stunning. All he wanted to do was
wrap her in his arms and never let go. It was the only way
to be sure she was safe.
Dex handed her the towel. “Dry off. I’ll make you some hot
tea and we can talk while you warm up. Do you want some dry
clothes? I could throw yours in the dryer.”
She shook her head slightly as she rubbed the towel over
her wet hair. The blond curls he remembered came bouncing
back to life as the strands were freed of the wet weight
holding them down. She scrubbed off the rain with quick,
efficient movements, but still didn’t take off her coat.
“I won’t be here that long.”
He led her to the kitchen, which was set at the back of the
house. The original wooden floors creaked in protest
underfoot—loud for him and softer for her.
He flipped on the lights, and the space was flooded with
bright, white light. He’d grown tired of the flickering,
yellow fluorescent fixture and had replaced it a few months
ago. Sadly, the change had only managed to highlight just
how much work this space still needed.
Like the rest of the house, the room was clean, but dated.
The tile backsplash had been the height of fashion in the
seventies, with avocado green accents tucked randomly
inside the brown tiles. The grout was cracked with age. The
laminate counters had been upgraded sometime in the
nineties, but they were now scuffed, burned and bubbling in
spots.
A small table big enough for only two chairs sat next to
the back door. His mail was piled there, along with his
wallet, keys and one of his handguns.
Lark eyed the gun, but rather than shock or fear on her
face, her expression was one of relief.
“Do you know how to use it?” she asked.
“I do,” he said, unwilling to brag about his excellent
marksmanship.
“Is it loaded?”
“Always. It’s not much use without bullets.” And in his
experience, the bad guys never did seem to be willing to
wait for him to load it.
“Good.” She nodded once and pulled in a deep breath.
“Because I think you’re in danger.”
For the second time in less than five minutes, Lark
Florence had shocked the hell out of him—not because she’d
said he was in danger. That was a lifestyle for him. No,
what shocked him was that she knew about it.
She wasn’t supposed to know. No one was.
Dex filled a kettle with water. Without looking at her, he
casually asked. “What makes you say that?”
“Do you have coffee?” she asked.
“Sure. Do you want some?” She’d been a tea-drinker when
they were kids, but things had changed since then.
She cleared her throat. Her voice was filled with fatigue.
“I haven’t slept in a while. I could use a jolt before I
get back behind the wheel.”
He wanted to ask her what had kept her awake, but it wasn’t
time for that. At least not yet. Her showing up, afraid of
something was the first mystery he had to solve. Everything
else was going to have to get in line after that.
He couldn’t destroy a threat if he didn’t know what it was.
He started a pot of coffee and hovered on the far side of
the room. A man his size had to be careful not to get too
close. People often felt threatened or intimidated by his
height and build. Sometimes it was handy, and sometimes
not. Fear was the last thing he wanted for Lark.
She didn’t know him anymore. Not really. Just like he
didn’t know her.
He kept his voice soft, casual. “Why are you here, Lark? I
mean, don’t get me wrong, I’m thrilled to see you, but I
can’t say it was expected.”
She lowered her gaze to the gun. The towel was wrapped
around her upper body, gripped at her chest like a
lifeline.
“I saw something,” she said. Her eyes closed. She shook her
head as if trying to convince herself that whatever she’d
seen wasn’t real.
“What did you see?”
She swallowed once, twice.
Dex waited for her to gather her words. Behind him the
coffee pot hissed and sputtered to fill the kitchen with
the confusing scent of morning in the middle of the night.
“Murder,” she whispered.
Dex straightened. Every instinct in his body was pulled
taut, tuned to her. “When? Tonight?”
“Last week.”
“Did you report it to the police?”
Her copper gaze met his, and for a moment, the rest of the
world fell away. There was so much fear there. So much
guilt.
What had she done to make her carry that guilt? It seemed
like too much for her slender frame to bear.
“No,” she said, her voice still low, ashamed.
“Why not?” No accusation, just curiosity. Deep curiosity.
She’d always been so uptight about the rules, so lawful. To
fail to report a murder was not like the Lark he knew at
all..
She averted her gaze again, this time going to the floor
instead of his weapon. It struck him that he wasn’t nervous
to have her so close to an efficient means to kill him.
With anyone else, he’d have already retrieved his handgun
and tucked it close to his body for safekeeping—even people
he knew.
In his world, you couldn’t trust anyone. Not even your
friends. People changed, sometimes fast.
Had Lark? Had she gone from a sweet, loving girl to a woman
hard enough to gun him down in cold blood with his own
weapon?
It wasn’t out of the question.
“The murder,” she started, hesitant and halting, “wasn’t
the usual sort. It was…different. Unbelievable.”
His body tensed as if a battering ram was headed right for
his balls. He’d seen enough to know just how unbelievable
the world could get.
Magic was real. Monsters were real. Sure, most of them wore
human skin, but they were still monsters nonetheless.
“What do you mean?” he forced himself to ask.
He didn’t want her to say what he thought she was about to
say. He didn’t want her anywhere near his fucked-up world.
She was supposed to be out there, safe and living a happy,
normal life, not wrapped up in magic and shards and death.
He’d deprived himself of her presence all these years so
she would be safe.
“The woman,” she said. “The victim. She wasn’t shot or
strangled. She wasn’t beaten or poisoned.”
“What happened to her?”
Lark looked up at him then, her gaze connecting to his so
tightly there was no means for him to escape.
“All the man did was touch her.” Lark lifted her hands to
her temples and pressed them there to demonstrate. “Like
this.”
Dex went cold. Old memories roiled beneath the surface,
threatening to spill out and cloud his thoughts. He forced
them back down with a hard shove and an inaudible growl.
His shards—the fragments of ancient, powerful souls he
carried—shifted along the back of his skull. He could feel
their agitation, their interest. Some of the darker shards
practically vibrated with excitement.
They wanted all the gruesome details. They wanted to lap
them up like sweet cream and savor them.
“Are you sure?” he asked.
Lark stared past him like she was witnessing the event all
over again. She shook her head as if in disbelief. “The
news said she died of a massive brain aneurism.” Her gaze
met his. “Just like…”
She didn’t have to finish. He knew.
Before Dex realized what he was doing, he’d crossed the
room and had pulled her to her feet by her shoulders.
Her eyes were wide. Her fingers were clenched around the
towel, her knuckles white. Her body trembled beneath his
hands.
“Did you see the killer?” Dex demanded.
Lark nodded, but the movement was so tight, he wasn’t sure
it had been voluntary.
“Did you see him?” he asked again, louder this time,
harder. It took every ounce of willpower he had not to
shake the answer out of her.
“I did,” she said, guilt clear in her tone. “And there’s
something else. Something I should have told you ten years
ago. Something that’s haunted me every day since that last
night we were together.”
“What?” He did shake her this time, slightly. If he didn’t
find a way to calm down, he was going to hurt her.
Thanks to his shards, he was strong—too strong for delicate
bones and soft skin.
“The man I saw last week,” she said. “I’ve seen him
before.”
“When?” he asked, though he was certain he knew the answer.
“Ten years ago.” Guilt flared brighter in her eyes, easy to
read. “He was the man who killed your parents.”
Dex went numb. Rage billowed just beneath the surface, but
he held it firmly in check. Numb was better. Safer. Numb
meant he could still function. He could fight. Kill. Numb
had saved his ass more times than he could remember.
He shoved everything down until he could no longer feel it.
He could barely breathe now, but that was better than the
alternative.
When he got like this—when his darker shards took hold—it
was far too easy to kill.
He loosened his grip on Lark’s arms. She’d gone up on
tiptoe inside his hold but now sank back down to her normal
height.
With slow, methodical care, he embraced the cold numbness.
He turned away from her, took two mugs from the cabinet and
filled them with coffee. He carried the dark brew to the
table. Rings rippled across the surface, revealing unseen
tremors racing through his body.
He was furious at her for keeping this secret from him. He
was excited that the man he’d been hunting for a decade had
finally resurfaced. But mostly, he was terrified that she’d
put herself in danger—the kind of danger no normal human
was capable of facing alone.
None of those emotions reached him fully, none showed in
his expression as he calmly sat down and slid Lark’s coffee
across the old table.
Go numb. Stay numb. Do your job.
She gripped the mug in her hands as if to warm them. Steam
curled up from the surface. She inhaled it but didn’t
drink.
Too hot? Or was it not to her taste?
Maybe she was simply stalling.
Dex picked up his Sig and slid it into the back of his
jeans. He was back on the clock now, sitting across from a
woman who might or might not be the person he remembered.
Through the thick fog of numbness, one thought surfaced
clear and bright. Whoever she was now, he prayed he wasn’t
going to have to kill her.
***
Shadow of Truth by Shannon K. Butcher
The imaginary friend Winnifred Archer had summoned when she
was four
years
old
was a stone cold badass, and the guy standing in line for
coffee
looked just
like him.
“What are you staring at?” asked Calista Bijou, her best
friend since
their
first day of high school. They’d been inseparable for the
last ten
years—
both
roommates and business partners—and Winni couldn’t imagine life
without her.
Calista was model-tall, with long, blond hair that never
frizzed, a
perfect
size
two figure, stunning features every camera loved, and eyes
the color
of
clear,
faceted emeralds. Winni—being the socially awkward, physically
average,
athletically challenged nerd she was—would have hated her on
principal if
not
for her sweet personality, amazing artistic talent, and fierce
loyalty to
all
lucky enough to call her friend.
Winni’s favorite coffee shop, Bean There, was busy today.
The tables
were
stuffed full of people seeking a late afternoon caffeine boost.
College kids
from the nearby campus filled half the seats, studying or
soaking up
the
free
wi-fi. Two middle-aged women sat with their heads bent close
together,
plotting
their first children’s book with animated glee. A trio of
suited
business
men
filled the table closest to the door. A thick stack of legal
sized
paper was
being passed around with many frowns and a few stinging curses.
A gray-haired woman at the next table scowled at their
profanity,
then
donned
her headphones with enough anger, she practically scraped
off her
glittering
clip-on earrings in the process.
The smell of coffee and freshly baked cookies filled the
air, along
with
onions
and celery from the savory soup of the day. While the menu’s
offerings were
few
and changed frequently, everything was tasty and made with
real food,
rather
than hydrogenated corn syrup and genetically modified petroleum
byproducts.
The whole space was humming with activity and promise, as if
each cup
of
frothy,
sweet, dark, bitter whatever held a little drop of magic.
“See that guy?” Winni whispered. She nodded to the giant Viking
warrior
lookalike who towered over the rest of the people in line at
the
counter.
He was well over six feet tall, with massive shoulders and a
thick
frame
layered
with seven kinds of muscles. Even under his casual jeans and
T-shirt,
she
could
see bulging ripples of strength that couldn’t be hidden by
any mere
cotton.
His
thighs pressed against the denim that strained to contain
them, but
the
effort
to cover up that much sexy had left the threads faded and worn.
From her table in the corner, Winni only had a view of the
side of
his face,
but
what she could see of it was as angular and bold as the rest
of him.
He had
a
wide jaw, broad forehead, and a deep dimple in his chin. As
he turned
his
head
slightly to greet the cashier, Winni caught a glimpse of
bright teal
eyes
glittering beneath a heavy brow.
All he needed was a sword and long, braided beard, and his
Viking
warrior
look
would be complete.
His gaze caught hers and held it for a second. He offered
her a slow,
curling
smile. It was easy and warm, like they’d been friends for
years,
though she
knew
she’d never met him. If she had, she would definitely have
remembered.
Winni’s heart rate kicked up. The air in her lungs seemed to
swell,
but her
throat was too tight to let out a breath. Every cell in her
body
started
quivering, but she couldn’t tell if it was because they
wanted her to
run
away
or get closer.
Much, much closer.
Was she supposed to smile back? She didn’t think she could
do that
with her
mouth hanging open like it was. Of course, a man who looked
like him
had to
be
used to women gawking at him. She just hoped she wasn’t
drooling as
well.
She tried to grin, but her face felt numb. Her brain—which was
usually more
than
capable of accomplishing any task that faced her—seemed to be
skipping like
an
old record stuck in a deep groove. She couldn’t remember how to
smile, or
even
if she should.
Calista’s gaze flicked up to the man, before dismissing him
in favor
of her
tablet and her current project. “How could I miss him? He's
huge.”
It was his turn to order. He finally looked away, breaking
the spell
his
breathtaking male appeal had on Winni. She’d seen plenty of
buff
guys, but
never
before had one drawn her in and put a choke-hold like that
on her.
Maybe because she felt like she knew him.
It took Winni three tries, but she finally managed to get
out the
words. “He
looks just like Bumpy.”
Calista peered at him again, narrowing her eyes in scrutiny.
“He
kinda does.
He’s even got the necklace. Maybe he’s a fan and heard you
hang out
and work
here.”
“No,” Winni said. “You don’t understand. He looks exactly
like Bumpy,
not
some
cosplaying wannabe.”
Calista gave her a stunning smile. “I hate to break it to
you, honey,
but
imaginary friends are called that because they’re not real.
Besides,
how
could a
guy his age be your beloved Bumpy? Even if you’d seen him in
the
flesh when
you
were four and turned him into your mental playmate, he would
have
only been
a
kid then. That man can’t be out of his twenties yet. Thirty
if he
takes
really
good care of himself.”
He definitely did that. His physique was amazing, likely
involving
more
hours at
a gym than not every day.
Normally, Winni would have overlooked a man like that as having
misplaced
priorities. She much preferred men who developed their
hearts and
minds more
than their bodies. Besides, she was no paragon of physical
perfection
herself.
Men like the guy in line would only be interested in women
who looked
like
Calista—perfect, thin and toned.
Maybe that smile he’d given her hadn’t been meant for Winni
at all.
Maybe
he’d
aimed it at Calista, but his male magnetism had drawn her in
like a
tractor
beam
and made her think it was all about her.
“You should go talk to him,” Winni said, though a tiny spark
of a
fantasy
died
as she said the words. “I think he’s into you.”
Callista blew out a scoffing breath. “Pfft. No thanks. I
work with
men like
that
on half the photo shoots I do. I am sick of hearing about
their diets
and
workout regimens and what part of their cycle they’re in.”
“Cycle?”
“They can’t stay cut all the time, so they gain and lose fat
in a
cycle.
Photographers have to time their photoshoots accordingly, so
they
keep a
stable
of guys who rotate in and out.”
The bizarre concept gave Winni something to think about
besides the
fact
that
her Bumpy’s doppelganger had gotten his food and was now
walking
right in
their
direction.
He was even more amazing from the front—all intriguing
angles and
rigid
planes,
like some kind of rock formation tourists from all over the
world
would
flock to
see. The closer he got, the bigger he looked, until he was
towering
over
their
table, tray in hand.
“Mind if I share your table?” he asked with a charming grin.
“The
place is
full
and I don’t see any empty tables.”
Winni opened her mouth, but only a squeak came out.
Calista saved the day by filling the awkward silence. “Are
you here
for an
autograph?”
A flickering frown crossed his handsome face for a second.
“Sorry,
but I
didn’t
realize you’re famous. No autographs required. I’m just here
to eat
my
sandwich.”
Calista moved her purse so there was room for him to slide
into the
seat
directly across from Winni, who still hadn’t regained the
ability to
form
words.
She peered over the screen of her laptop, wishing she could
sink
under the
table
and disappear. It had been a long time since she’d been
flabbergasted
like
this
in front of a man—so long that the subjects of her
admiration had
only been
boys
at the time.
This guy was all man. And then some.
Bumpy’s doppelganger took the lid off his coffee to let it
cool. “So,
you’re
famous?” he asked Calista.
“Not me. This is the amazing Winnifred Archer. She’s the
creator of
the
video
game, Shadow of Truth. I thought you might be one of her
fanboys.”
Winni blushed at the attention. She was used to nerdy folk
of all
kinds
approaching her, but never anyone like this man.
His bright teal gaze caught hers, and everything in her went
still.
Not a
single
neuron fired. She didn’t breathe or blink. All she could do
was stare
at
him,
like he was the long lost missing piece of a years-old puzzle.
“Is that so?” he asked, his voice deep and warm. “I’ve never
met a
famous
video
game designer before. I’m Garet. It’s nice to meet you.”
He held out a hand. Calluses graced the pads of his palm,
darker and
shinier
than the rest of his supple skin. His hand was so wide and
thick, she
wasn’t
sure if it was real. And even if it was, she had no clue
what she was
supposed
to do with something of that epic scale. She certainly
couldn’t touch
it. It
was
too…powerful.
“Uh,” was all she managed, followed by a wet gurgling noise she
couldn’t
contain
or identify as any known means of communication.
Calista kicked her under the table, then shook his hand so
as not to
leave
him
hanging. “Sorry, Garet. We don’t touch the talent,” she said,
covering for
Winni’s total lack of cool.
Her lungs were so starved for air, they finally took over
and forced
her to
start breathing again.
She was certain her face had to be red from lack of oxygen,
and she
couldn’t
trust that her hands wouldn’t shake if she lifted them from her
keyboard.
Whoever this man was, he packed one hell of a punch, leaving
her
stunned and
floundering.
“What’s your game about?” Garet asked Winni. His long
fingers wrapped
around
the
sandwich, making it look like child’s sized, rather than the
large,
multi-
layered concoction it was.
“Fighting and stuff,” Winni wheezed. “Monsters. Swords. Magic.”
Calista patted Winni’s thigh under the table as if to sooth
her and
took
over
the conversation. “Winni’s game is the story of Princess
Pellonia
Pendragon
and
her search for her lost love, Sir Starkadhr. He was cursed
to spend
eternity
alone in darkness by the evil one-horned demon who wanted the
princess for
himself, but she refuses to give up her quest to find her
true love.”
“Calista does most of the artwork,” Winni finally managed,
proud of
her
complete, coherent sentence. “She draws the characters
exactly like I
see
them.
It’s a gift.”
Rather than turn his gaze to the only beautiful woman at the
table,
Garet
continued to look at Winni. “But the story idea was yours?”
She gave him a tight, fast nod that made her head spin. “You
look
like Sir
Starkadhr.”
“Really?” His tone was one of amused curiosity. “Can I see?”
Calista tapped on her tablet, then turned it around to show
him the
artwork
of
Starkadhr—the character for which Winni’s imaginary friend
Bumpy had
been
the
main inspiration.
The drawing was of a muscular man in tattered pants, holding a
gleaming,
golden
sword. His long blond hair flared behind him as if a breeze
had just
caught
the
shimmering strands. An iridescent band filled with a hundred
swirling
colors
circled his throat, clinging to the contours as if it
couldn’t get
close
enough.
His bare, bulging chest was covered in a large tattoo of a
gnarled,
ancient
tree, along with more than one scar he’d earned in glorious
battles
against
dark, evil monsters.
This was how Bumpy had appeared to Winni the night of her
mother’s
murder,
fully
formed and seared in her mind. This was the image that
flared to life
every
time
Winni had been afraid or lonely. This digital picture,
though not
nearly as
lifelike as the one in Winni’s head, was as close as Calista
had ever
come
to
capturing the raw essence of Bumpy’s power. It was the first
thing
she saw
before she opened her eyes in the morning, and the last one
she saw
long
after
she laid down to sleep every night.
He was her constant, unwavering companion, long past the
time most
children
had
shed their childhood crutch and stopped believing in what
wasn’t
real.
His blond brows shot up. “Wow. I really do look like him.”
Calista nodded. “He’s based on Winni’s childhood imaginary
friend,
Bumpy.”
He grinned at the childish name. “Bumpy?”
“He appeared to me when I was little,” Winni said as she
blushed. “He
had
lots
of big muscles, but I didn’t know what to call them. I just
thought
they
were
lots of bumps. Thus, Bumpy.”
All signs of humor fled his expression. “Appeared? In person?”
The answer seemed so important to him, she couldn’t help but
give it.
“No.
He’s
just a figment of my overactive imagination.” And deep
soul-wrenching
terror
and
grief.
Not that she’d say that part. She’d never told anyone what had
happened that
night. Not even Calista, who she loved and trusted more than
anyone
on the
planet.
“How old were you when Bumpy appeared?” he asked. His tone was
casual, but
his
focus on her intensified, as if the answer was important.
“Four.”
Why had she told him that? It wasn’t like her at all to
blurt out her
darkest
secrets to complete strangers. No one but Calista knew about
her
imaginary
friend—that she still had one at the ripe old age of
twenty-four,
well past
the
time he should have faded out of existence.
“Just a baby,” he said, his tone one of deep speculation.
Winni drained her coffee cup as an excuse to avoid his gaze.
She was such a spaz. Why didn’t he just finish his sandwich
and leave
already?
Surely there were at least ten other women in here who would
have
been
better
company.
After a couple of bites, his intensity seemed to fade,
leaving behind
the
casual, easygoing vibe he had about him. “What’s the deal
with the
tree
tattoo?”
Winni had talked about her game more times than she could
count.
She’d even
managed to string together a few coherent answers to
questions when
she’d
been
on a panel in front of a crowd at the last ComicCon. Surely,
if she
could
speak
in front of five hundred people, she could answer the
questions of
one
single
man—even one of galactic proportions.
“It shows the passage of time in the game. If the princess
can’t
rescue Sir
Starkadhr before the last leaf falls, then he dies and the
game is
over.”
“Sounds harsh,” he said.
“It is,” Winni said. “It takes most gamers months to figure
out how
to save
him
from the one-horned demon before he’s devoured.”
“Devoured? Not just killed?”
“The monsters in my world feed on the blood of descendants
of an
ancient
race of
beings. Starkadhr is one of those people.”
“And Princess Pellonia? Is she one of those people as well?”
“Of course,” Winni said. “Why else would the one-horned
demon want
her?”
Garet’s gaze flicked to Calista. “Do you have any drawings
of the
princess?”
She pulled up the artwork for the cover of the upcoming sequel,
Shadow of
Truth
II, and showed it to him.
He studied it with a look of disappointment.
“What’s wrong?” Winni finally asked.
“I thought she’d look like you. Too bad.”
Winni let out a laugh that was the mutated offspring of a
snort and a
sneeze.
“If Princess Pellonia Pendragon looked like me, no one would
buy the
game.”
“I would,” he said, completely serious.
Silence reigned over the table—the long, awkward kind that
made Winni
fidget
and
clamp her fingers into fists.
“Do you want a refill?” Calista asked as she took Winni’s
coffee mug
and
dashed
away before she could get an answer.
The move left her completely alone with the giant Viking who
made her
skin
tingle—especially her most sensitive areas, even the
skimpiest of
bikinis
would
cover.
He finished off his sandwich, wiped his mouth, then leaned
back in
his
chair.
The whole time, she stared at him because she couldn’t help
it. Every
move
he
made reminded her more and more of the imaginary companion
she’d had
since
she
was tiny.
Finally, after a long moment of studying her, he asked, “Are
you
afraid of
me,
Winni?”
“You make me feel funny,” she said.
Oh, hell. Had she really admitted that?
Humiliation heated her cheeks.
At least she hadn’t added in my swimsuit area on the end. If
she had,
her
embarrassment would have been fatal.
He laughed, but it wasn’t the cold, scoffing laugh she was
used to
from men
who
saw themselves as too good for her. Instead, it was a warm,
inclusive
laugh,
like she’d made a joke.
Maybe he was too dumb to realize just how socially awkward
she was
around
him.
He was certainly handsome enough that also being smart would
have
been
completely unfair.
He leaned forward. His body was big enough that he nearly
engulfed
her
personal
space, even from across the table. His voice lowered to a
whisper she
had to
inch closer to hear. “You make me feel funny, too. In a good
way.”
And just like that, Winni was once again speechless. Her
mouth opened
and
closed
a few times, but no air passed her lips. She could feel her
face
heating and
turning red, but there wasn’t a thing she could do to stop it.
Calista came back with fresh coffee in hand to rescue her.
Garet eased back to his side of the table but kept his
attention
firmly on
Winni. “I have an appointment right after sunset, but I’d
love it if
you’d
have
dinner with me tonight.”
Winni looked at Calista, waiting for her to accept his
invitation,
but when
her
best friend gave her an expectant look, she knew she was
screwing
things up
with
this man again.
“She’d love to go,” Calista said on her behalf.
“Me?” Winni squeaked. “You were asking me out?”
“Who else?” he asked.
“Calista, of course. She’s the pretty one.”
“He’s not interested in me, honey,” Calista said gently,
grinning.
“This is
all
about you.”
Winni had no idea what to say to that. She was too confused
to make
sense
out of
what was happening. “But hot guys never ask me out.”
He laughed again like she’d said something funny.
Calista shook her head and rolled her eyes. To Garet, she said.
“There’s a
little Italian restaurant a few blocks from our apartment.
The area
is
rundown,
but the food is amazing. She’ll meet you there at seven.”
She scribbled the name of the place on a napkin and slid it
across
the
table.
Garet gave Winni one last charming grin and said, “See you
tonight,
Winnifred. I
can’t wait.”
She sat there in stunned silence while he walked away. As
soon as the
strange
sense of disorientation dissipated, she turned to Calista.
“What just
happened?”
“You just agreed to go on a date with the man who looks like
your
imaginary
friend.”
“I did?”
“You did.”
“Why?”
Calista laughed. “Because he’s completely into you and hot
as hell.
Why
not?”
“What if I make a fool of myself?”
Calista patted her hand and said in a gentle voice, “Honey,
I hate to
be the
one
to tell you this, but you already did that. He didn’t seem
to mind.
In fact,
I
think he found your stammering awkwardness charming.”
“He did?”
“It appeared so.”
“That’s too weird.”
“It is,” Calista agreed. “But if you want my advice, I say
you run
with it.
I
can tell by the way a man walks how good he’ll be in bed.”
“I know. It’s one of your superpowers.” Then it hit Winni
what her
friend
was
saying. “How good is he?”
Calista bobbed her eyebrows. “On a scale of one to ten? He’s
easily a
solid
twenty-seven.”
***
Nowhere to Hide by Terri L. Austin
I scuttled across the slick sidewalk on my way to work, teeth
chattering as
I frowned at the bloated clouds overhead. More snow was on
the way,
which
meant bad news for me and my wallet.
My evening job at Mikey’s Eats paid a pittance, but working
off the
books
meant Mikey forked over cash after every shift. Still, I
relied on
tips to
make ends meet, and when it snowed people wisely remained home.
I’d almost reached the entrance of the restaurant when a
sharp tingle
of
awareness pricked my skin. Someone was watching me. I could
feel it.
The
tiny hairs on the back of my neck practically vibrated.
Shoulders hunched against the bitter wind, I spun around,
scoping out
the
area. Both the street and sidewalk were oddly empty.
Usually, this
late in
the afternoon cars zoomed to and fro along Riverside. Not
today. Was
it the
impending snow that kept everyone off the street, or
something else?
A
spell, perhaps?
I stilled, trying to pick up a trace of that warm, familiar
caress of
magic.
No, not a hint of it. Yet something was off. I felt that, too.
I scanned the windows of the nearest building to my right,
but didn’t
spot
any movement. Then I searched through the dusk to see who
might be
observing
me, but found myself completely alone on the sidewalk. I’d
been so
intent on
hustling to the restaurant, I hadn’t really noticed, and
damn it, I
should
have. That was Survival 101.
Be aware of your surroundings, Hailey. Wasn’t that the first
lesson
my
father drilled into me? Actually, no. The first had been:
beer should
always
be cold. And I got the backside of his hand every time it
wasn’t. The
whole
being aware thing was a very close second, though.
I spotted two cars parked across the street—a red Toyota sedan,
stained
chalky white from road salt, and a clean, black SUV almost
half a
block
away.
It’d be easy to shrug off this feeling, dismiss it as a
flash of
paranoia.
Except for one thing—someone really was out to get me.
With my eyes sharp, looking for any sign of movement, I
retraced my
path up
the street to check out the SUV. It was too clean to have been
driving
around the slushy streets for long. And most people didn’t
bother
washing
their cars with another round of snowfall on the way.
I thrust my right hand into the pocket of my jacket, my
gloved fist
clenching the hilt of an automatic knife, while my left hand
wrapped
around
a thin canister of pepper spray.
With my heart beating faster than a rabbit’s, I neared the SUV.
Standing
directly across from it I stared into the windows, my nerves
taut,
muscles
poised and ready to fight.
But the car was empty. No one sat behind the wheel or in the
passenger seat.
The back was clear, too.
My grip on the weapons loosened, and I let out a long sigh
of visible
fog.
It hung in the air, suspended for a moment before
dissipating. I
wished I
could evaporate just as easily.
All these years I’d managed to stay one step ahead of the
old man.
Not my
father—the other old man. Theodore Du Monde. I’d lived on
the street,
and in
cramped, dirty apartments, and took shelter in airports more
times
than I
could count. I worked menial jobs and lived in cities where
no one
paid
attention to a friendless girl dressed in secondhand clothes.
But I’d made a mistake this time. I’d forgotten how cold
northern
winters
could be. Though Minneapolis met my criteria of a large-ish
city, one
where
I could blend in and find a cheap apartment—the kind where the
landlord
actually preferred cash transactions—I’d underestimated the
harshness
of the
weather. It was only November, and technically still fall,
yet this
blustery
wind ripped right through my down-filled coat and leather
gloves,
leaving my
fingers bone cold.
I needed to move on from here fast. Head south, maybe Florida.
Because if
someone was watching me, I was already on borrowed time.
I’d been on the run for so long, fear had become a constant
companion,
clinging to me like an oily film that seeped into my soul. I
couldn’t
rid
myself of it, no matter how hard I tried. But this feeling
right now,
the
heaviness in my chest, the sense of foreboding—this wasn’t
fear. It
was more
like a nagging certainty that my luck had finally run out.
* * *
BADASS BEAR by Kathy Lyons – a Novella in The
Secret She Keeps anthology
This is the moment Gary first shifts into a grizzly bear.
Neither he nor Margaret know anything about shifters. And
here's the kicker: in his human form, he's a paraplegic.
Chapter 3
If he'd had the breath Gary would have screamed too, but the
flash-flow of lava started in his head then rolled
lightning-fast down the rest of his body.
His back arched, and strength pulsed through his arms, which
levered him upright. He felt his body lift off the couch,
and then the pain hit. Bursts through his mind and body. His
mouth—agony. Arms throbbing. Legs on fire.
Hard to breathe. Hard to move.
Another scream. A high-pitched wail of terror.
He looked at Margaret. Her eyes bulged, and her skin was
white. Her mouth opened in a scream he didn't process. There
was only agony.
New sounds filled his ears: An animal yowl harsh with pain
and terror. A crash. Furniture? Fabric ripped. But he could
only focus Margaret's fear.
What nightmare weapon had hit him? What was attacking them?
He didn't know, but he would stand between it and Margaret.
He twisted, intending to do just that. His agony was
lessening, but his mind was still sluggish. It was hard to
focus on anything but the bursts of stabbing pain in his
hips and legs. Unpredictable. Unrelenting. He convulsed.
He gathered his strength, which was an impossible task, but
he did it. And yet, he didn't see any threat, just his loft
and destroyed furniture at his feet. At his… Wait. What the
hell was he seeing?
Massive paws. Fur. Claws, each the length of his phone. All
right there, inches away.
He jumped backward—actually jumped—then half scrambled, half
crawled until the couch got in the way. It toppled beneath
him. Unfortunately, the paws moved too. Frantically
flapping, they were a bizarre flurry of motion.
What the hell? The paws were faced outward. As if…
He looked down, feeling his head about to explode. The claws
were definitely where his hands were supposed to be. And his
arms were massive, with coarse fur of brown and tan.
Another animalistic sound cut through the air. It held panic
and terror, and the smells… God, there were a thousand of
them: The food they'd eaten. Chocolate. Margaret's perfume.
And the acrid scent of her fear.
He heard her soft whimper. She wasn't behind him anymore.
She was to the side, plastered against the wall, caught
between his desk and the window. She was shaking and pale,
her hands outstretched as if to ward him off.
He opened his mouth to reassure her, but when he spoke he
didn't hear words. He heard a kind of bark. Not like a dog.
Deeper. Weirder. And the sound rose on the end, a yip of
surprise.
What the hell? He couldn't talk? His mouth felt weird, and
he reached up to touch it but a paw came at his face with
huge, sharp claws. He jerked backwards, his body thick and
clumsy, like he had double his weight in muscle. Each
movement had immense power, but nothing felt right. Nothing
was right.
Then he saw the mirror to his right, a large one hung beside
the loft door. In it, he saw fur and a body. A bear. But—
He swallowed and heard another plaintive whimper. Had
he made that sound? He couldn't have. It was the
anguish of a terrified animal. He took a step forward,
closer to the mirror.
No!
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